not in service the time now, in my heart, is half past done. you drummed my beat irregular, from across the street. now, stacked up high with leaving intentions, i am moving,
a snowy Saturday in January and i wish you were here a dense, grey gruel of cadaverous air, slanders the chimney pots. birds hang on branches like tears clinging to an eyelash.
bran tub i am sat beside a large tub. it is filled with light brown soil, supporting a shrub that is unknown to me. perhaps it has origins in Japan. it reminds me of a bran tub
flapjack pigeons a thin, grey lunch break inside a great, glass greenhouse: my numb fingers, break a Bakewell tart flavoured flapjack, into beak-sized bites,
Christmas crows quick black shadows pass by the skylight; hints of yesterday peeling away, to a pale grey sky beneath, left wanting, heavy with the promise of questions.
